


silver.

by duncant



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gift Fic, M/M, chronic pain melkor, post destruction of the two trees, touch averse sauron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duncant/pseuds/duncant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor is in pain, he just doesn't speak of it often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	silver.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fyeahblackturtlenecks (Barricades_And_Flowers)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fyeahblackturtlenecks+%28Barricades_And_Flowers%29).



> happy birthday crawly enjoy your gay darklords

The Halls of Angband were grey.

 

More than a few brows had been raised when Melkor had built his new fortress in such a manner, he knew. They saw Melkor leave ruin in his wake, and they saw him destroy that which his siblings had sung. To the others he was chaos, a being who had sown discord since his creation. Melkor knew they were correct, to some extent. His raiment was of dark blues and blacks, why should his palace be any different? In making his home a place of finery and solid strength, he had gone against their expectations. He had gone against all that which they had known, the one who had formed them from thought alone. They did not understand, and Melkor was coming to believe they simply could not. He was discord, he was He Who Arises in Might, but he was more than that. Rare was the one who saw, and rarer still the one who understood.

 

He went through his halls alone, admiring the work that had been finished in his….absence. Melkor remembered all too well Angainor’s cold grip on his neck, manacles sized for him alone clinking harshly with every movement. The chain had been carved of the brightest silver, and the grey of Angband was a pleasant change from the grey of Mandos and the brightness of Tirion. His was the grey of stormclouds, dark and shadowed with thunderous flame lights hung on the walls. Unneeded, maybe, but Melkor could appreciate the craftsmanship. Sauron had carved them from the finest gold and iron, the two metals intricately wound around each other. Valarin marks named the creator, and pale red light emanated from their center.

 

Melkor passed through his halls, a small smile playing on his lips. Yes, this was something he could work with. Done in pale greys, darkest blacks and the sharpest reds, Angband was not only defensible, it was well crafted and beautiful. In a way few would appreciate, but still beautiful. Worthy of housing his throne, and his armies, his followers. He was free from the Valar’s grip, he had the Silmarils of Fëanor - for now, the rightful King of Arda was satisfied with the developments in his plans.

 

Now if only he wasn’t pained so.

 

Angainor had left it’s scars on him, which he had expected. Thick white scars showed against his grey toned skin, the marks left by his brothers foolish followers and their shining metal. The white collar had left a similar mark around his neck, smaller scars from chains that held him in place dotting his collarbones. The scars weren’t as much of an issue as he had expected, but yet the sharp pains and aches of them was distracting, at best. At worst, Melkor would have to retreat to his quarters, or to any of the empty rooms of Angband. He seethed to know the Valar and their crafts could affect him so, even years after his release.

 

Almost absently, Melkor rubbed at the thick white scar with blackened fingers. The Silmarils had done him damage, as well, and this was far more demanding of attention, lately. Fëanor’s gems had burned him, permanently cracking the skin and causing Melkor no small amount of pain. But they were his, and the cost was worth the prize. The three gems sat in his crown, and Melkor went about ungloved most of the time. What were scars and burns to a king? Let them see his pain. Let them see their king rise above it, to conquer these marks of the Valar.

Footsteps sounded behind him, with steps fleeting and quiet. Melkor turned to see who had need of him, and was mildly surprised to see his lieutenant.

 

“My lo-”

 

Melkor raised a hand, stopping him. They had talked about this - Sauron would not call him lord, not when they were alone. The title had it’s place, but that was not now.

 

“Ah, Melkor, I heard you were about,” Sauron corrected hastily, nodding his head. The Maia’s fiery hair fell freely around his head, and idly Sauron tucked a strand behind sharply pointed ears. Small gems of brilliant reds and shining yellows glittered around his ears, and yet more were settled on the shoulders of his crimson robes. Golden makeup adorned his fiery eyes, dark skin providing a stark but attractive contrast. Time away from Aulë’s forges had done him well, as had time leading in Melkor’s absence - though other situations had weighed on the small Maia, his will was firm. The Admirable, indeed.

 

“How else should I inspect that which has been crafted for me?” Melkor asked, tilting his head with hands disappearing behind his back.

 

Sauron’s lips twitched upwards as he spoke, his words careful, “You have been back to your fortress a good amount of time, Melkor. Had you not made inspections your first priority?”

 

“Well, yes,” Melkor murmured, his voice falling quiet as the pain in his arms grew, only to subside mere moments later. Damn it’s unpredictability.

 

The Maia frowned slightly, eyes trailing towards Melkor’s hands, so hidden by dark grey robes. He spoke, then, his voice softening, “Are you well, my friend?”

 

Quietly, Melkor sighed. Was he? He knew things were going according to plan, and yet these scars and wounds tugged his mind as they throbbed. Distractions he feared he could not afford. The king shook his head, gesturing to Sauron to follow him as he turned on his heel and walked down the long halls. The Maia fell into step beside him easily, despite how small he seemed next to the Vala. “There is...well, I think you may already know what is the matter, dear Sauron.”  
  


He nodded in response, glancing up at Melkor with concerned eyes. Yes, Melkor had told Sauron, but he hadn’t told him all of it. If any should know how sleep failed him and how most steps were filled with pain, it was his lieutenant. Melkor led him to one of the balconies on this upper level of Angband, balconies that overlooked the dragon’s training grounds. The beasts were still small, but their scales flashed and glinted as they fought with one another, claws and teeth and wings coming together in bursts of violence. It would be many, many more years before these saw combat, but Melkor was proud of what progress was being made in the dragon pits.

 

Sauron stood to the right side of the iron balcony, arms crossed. It was a simple thing, these balconies, but they were useful enough for conversations like these.

 

“Your werewolves, they are growing well? I have had very positive reports on them from Gothmog and Langon” Melkor said, leaning on the wall slightly. His hands he held in front of him, rubbing where the prisons of Námo had left their scars.

 

Sauron nodded, resting both hands on the simple rail, gazing at the young drakes. “Indeed. Draugluin learns swiftly, and his kind follow his lead. They may be ready sooner than I had previously hoped for, but nevertheless,” the Maia paused, tapping a finger, nail painted golden, on the rail as he turned to Melkor, “But, that is not why I am here, is it?”

 

Melkor offered little but a smile, forced and small it may be. He took a step forward, leaning his hands on the metal and biting his tongue as the pain hit. It had grown familiar in recent times, but familiar was far from comfortable - and given his stress of late, the pain of old wounds only worsened. “Perceptive, I see.”

 

“Simply paying due attention, Melkor,” Sauron answered, edging closer to him. “Though often I wonder how much the others see, it is of less concern, I would say. You claim their loyalty is firm, after all.”

 

The Maia paused, taking Melkor’s burned, charred hand in his own as if he held the finest of rings. Ever gentle, he ran his fingers down the length of the burns, brilliant eyes turned towards the stark black of the Silmaril’s burns against greyed skin, the band where Angainor had laid. “They still ache, no?”  
  


“Would that they did not,” Melkor answered, his voice soft. He was the Lord of Angband, the rightful King of Arda, and he did not enjoy having a weakness. Even if few knew the truth of his permanent wound, and fewer still knew the extent of his flaw, however rooted in the physical it may be. Melkor was not a being of earth and air, of life and death, not as the Firstborn were. He was a being of spirit, of song and of chaos. His fragility was born of the world in ways he was not - a fearful thing, to know that which he had helped create could harm him so.

 

“I may have a plan to help that, Melkor. Just a few designs, so far, but in a few weeks…? I should have something that might alleviate some discomfort.”  
  


Melkor raised an eyebrow, motioning for Sauron to continue with a twirling finger.

 

“I’ll have to take measurements, of course, but I feel it will prove worthy of your time,” the Maia paused, stepping closer and holding Melkor’s hand higher. “A sort of gauntlet, if you would. Only thinner, far, far thinner, crafted of the finest silver. Leather or cloth on the inside, maybe? Yes...that could provide support and cushioning, without being noticeable.”  
  


Sauon appeared distracted as he spoke, ghosting his fingers over scars and cracks. Melkor couldn’t help but smile - though it was likely his lieutenant did not notice it, caught up in his planning as he was. “Up to the elbows, with strong lines of design and decoration. Stones set in the metal...yes, I can have this done soon, Melkor. Assuming you would want it, of course.”

 

He hummed a low laugh, mirthless and hollow. “If you think it will help, Sauron, I will take your word for it.”

 

“I’ll start on it immediately.”

 

“Do take your time, Sauron. I would not have you stressing yourself unnecessarily for my sake.”

 

Sauron smiled - a quick, small whip of a smile, edged with genuine amusement. “For you, Melkor? It will not stress me. Rather, I think it will calm my mind once I finish,” his smile dropped, tone growing soft,  “I worry about you, if I am to be quite honest.”

 

Melkor took a step closer, moving to wrap an arm around his partner. First, however, he raised his eyebrows and mouthed the question. He would have reached out with his mind, as sometimes he did when communicating with him or other Ainur across distances, but that ws in itself a form of touch Sauron was occasionally uncomfortable with. It was something of a rule - Melkor would always ask before touching Sauron, and he always respected if the answer was no.

 

However, Sauron nodded, giving affirmative for Melkor reach out. He did so slowly, pulling him close and resting his forehead on Sauron’s. He was a good head or two taller than his partner, but he didn’t let it get in the way of any affection he wanted to give - and that Sauron was willing to receive.

 

“I’ll be alright, my friend.”

 

“If you say so, Melkor. I will worry anyhow.”

 

Melkor snorted quietly, kissing Sauron’s nose swiftly. He earned himself a laugh from the fiery lieutenant, who ran his hands through long dark hair. “I will keep my word, Sauron. I promise.”

 

“You’d better,” the Maia murmured, stretching his neck to kiss Melkor’s nose, “I would be not the least bit upset if you weren’t.”

  
Melkor laughed, quiet and low. Yes, he would be alright, eventually. And he’d have Sauron with him for it.


End file.
